


Take me Back

by Frick6101719



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Friends to lovers... sort of, Pre Stranger Things I, connected one-shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2020-06-27 23:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19799791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frick6101719/pseuds/Frick6101719
Summary: "The Chief and her... they've screwed before, huh?"A series of connected one-shots tracking Joyce and Hopper's relationship from the time they get caught smoking under the steps to realizing that there's something distinctly UN-platonic between them and onward. Basically, this is my idea of just WHAT went down in their past that gives them the charged and complicated dynamic we see on the show.First chapter is the time Mr. Cooper catches them smoking under the steps, as referenced in 2x02





	1. We ran, we just ran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 1963
> 
> The break between fifth and sixth period is for cigarettes and conversation, okay? Cigarettes, and conversation.  
> And maybe a little bit of running.

Joyce Horowitz may be addicted to cigarettes, but she's pretty sure the nicotine has almost nothing to do with it. Like most fifteen-year-olds, every opportunity to flip her mother the bird is one that must be seized, and the picture of Vera Horiwitz's cartoonishly-furious face behind her closed eyelids makes every forbidden drag sweeter than any drug. Vera hardly gave a flying fuck about anything her daughter did, but after finding out her ex-husband let Joyce smoke it became her mission to swat every Camel, Marlboro, or Lucky Strike out of her daughter's hands while screeching about how Joyce is such an ungrateful, stupid little brat.

Joyce can't afford to be too picky, then, about where and when and what she smokes—not when getting caught with cigs at home meant Vera would likely lock the fridge and forbid her dinner—so bumming a smoke at school from friends and sneaking off to the bathroom or the front steps to light up became the only way to get her fix and go to bed with a full belly.

Which is how she ended up striking up a… friendship, she supposed, with a bit of an unlikely boy.

"James _Francis_ Hopper?"

"Fuck me!" the boy laughs. "Do you think my parents hate me?"

Joyce tries to stifle her laugh as Jim passes her his cigarette, and ends up choking on the smoke from the high-tar Lucky Strike when she can't quite stop the giggles.

"Easy, Joycie," Jim says, reaching for the smoke before she's even gotten a real puff. "You need to learn to smoke like an adult."

Joyce keeps the cigarette from his long reach, this time inhaling smoothly and refusing to cough even when her throat tickles from the dense smoke. "James Archibald Hopper. That rolls right off the tongue."

Jim snatches the cigarette from her hand, shaking his head and chuckling. "I'm never going to tell you, but it _definitely_ isn't that."

"What about… James Leopold Hopper?" She tries, leaning back against one of the support beams for the stairs and tucking her knees to her chest. "That's a nice, regal-sounding name."

"Yeah, maybe if I was some blue blood from 'Mother England.'" His attempt at a British accent is _terrible_. "Anyone named Leopold in Hawkins needs to be punched in the face."

Joyce snorts, and Jim hands her the cigarette. "Why? Just to keep him humble?"

"Exactly. Leopolds are universal tightwads." He raises an eyebrow at her. "What about you? Joyce… Elizabeth Horowitz. Is that right?"

"Good try, but no. You'll never guess mine either."

"Oh, you could guess mine pretty easily, I'd just never tell you," Jim corrects. "Joyce _Gertrude_ Horowitz. I feel good about that one."

She shakes her head. "Nope. It's way more out-of-the-box than that."

Jim hums thoughtfully, but Joyce can tell he's losing interest in this little game. And the odds are stacked against him; there's just no way he'll think to guess a name like _Adina_.

The Lucky is nearly down to the filter by this point, and Joyce can't help but dread the inevitable return to school and sixth-period-P.E. that she knows is coming in a few more minutes. They'll be playing basketball—just like they have been all week—and while Joyce isn't terribly un-athletic, basketball is definitely not a sport designed for rail-thin girls who stand barely five-foot-three. She wouldn't mind never having to play it again. Plus, yesterday someone threw her the ball when she wasn't ready and it smashed right into her left middle finger. She'd had to go to the nurse to get it taped and iced and it still hurt like a total bitch. Part of her wishes it was her right hand—then maybe she'd be able to get out of classes because she couldn't take notes.

She steals a look at Jim from the corner of her eye as he stubs the end of the cigarette on the steps above them. She would like school a whole lot more if Jim was in her grade, and she could have even a class or two with him. Obviously Jim would never be in her P.E. class—though she'd bet he's a shade or two better at basketball than she is based off his height alone—but still, she can easily imagine sitting in front of him in science, or especially in English, trying not to laugh at the jokes about Mr. Cooper's comb-over that he would whisper to her just quietly enough so the teacher couldn't hear.

It's not that she doesn't have friends at Hawkins High, not at all. She's never exactly been Homecoming Queen, but she has Sandra Derkins and Pauline Goffmann… and even Jeanine Michales, when she isn't dating some boy who takes up all her time.

It's just that none of those girls are as cool as Jim Hopper.

Everyone at Hawkins High likes Jim; even the teachers who give him hell for often arriving late (or a smidge high) can't help but be dazzled by his smiles and winks as he charms his way out of detention after detention. Jim isn't popular, exactly, and he's flirted with one too many football player's girlfriend to ever really crack that inner circle, but very few people dislike him, and his devil-may-care attitude is more than a hit with the girls, Joyce knows.

She also knows it's a bit of a farce, and that knowledge makes her feel oddly proud, smug even. Oh, he skips class and hands in assignments as late as he can, but Jim Hopper is secretly a smart and hard-working guy. He let it slip just the other day that he's got a 3.2 GPA—practically a _nerd_.

"What are you looking at?" Jim asks her, stretching his legs out and running a hand through his hair, completely ruining any semblance of tidiness to the sandy blond strands.

_I suppose he's handsome enough, in a can't-be-bothered kind of way_ , Joyce thinks, though she just rolls her eyes and tries not to blush at being caught staring. "Nothing, nothing. I just thought you missed a spot shaving," she says, tapping her jaw. She hopes he actually shaves. He must, right?

Jeanine is so boy-crazy that the first time she saw Joyce and Hopper emerge from beneath the steps, she had practically pounced on Joyce and demanded to know if she'd been "rounding the bases with a SENIOR BOY." Joyce hadn't quite known what that meant, but she had denied it vividly and completely, not that that had shut Jeanine up about it. It was kind of weird that Jeanine thought there was anything between her and Jim… and worse that the other girls never seemed to take Joyce's side about it. She hardly ever even saw him except for during break between fifth and sixth, and while he would smile and nod in her direction if they passed in the hallway or on Main street, it's not like they were inseparable pals.

"So did you decide to ask Chrissy to Prom?" She asks, while Jim pokes his head outside to check the time on the school clock.

"Nah, I don't think I'm going to go after all. It's kind of dumb, you know?" he says easily, leaning back once more and resting his hands behind his head.

"Prom is dumb?" Maybe it's the fact that she's only a sophomore, but Joyce thinks Prom is _anything_ but dumb. It's the one night for magic in all of the miserable high school experience, after all.

"Yeah, it's _dumb_. Like you rent a dumb suit that doesn't fit—and probably itches—so you can dance badly in a room full of sweaty teenagers just to get laid by a girl you've screwed at least dozen times." He looks at her sidelong, like he's said more than he meant to. "Sorry."

"I'm not a _kid_ ; I get how it is." She almost winces at how juvenile she sounds. "Still. It's a once-in-a-lifetime thing. You'd maybe regret never going if you just skip it because you think it's dumb."

Jim shrugs deliberately, and suddenly it dawns on her.

"Oh damn," she starts to laugh. "Chrissy Carpenter turned you down, didn't she?"

Jim gives her a dirty look, which only makes her laugh harder. He pulls out another cigarette from the pocket of his denim jacket. "Shut up."

"Well I'm not surprised she did, not if you made it sound as glamourous as you did just now," Joyce points out. "There's not a girl in the world who would agree to go to Prom with you if she thought you were doing it just to screw her 'when you've done it at least a dozen times.'"

Jim takes a long drag, giving her a pitying look. "That's the problem with you girls: you all think you can speak for all women everywhere. There are plenty of girls who don't care about stuff like that; Chrissy's just real different from you."

"Oh yeah? How do you figure?" Joyce asks, crossing her arms, being careful not to squish her injured finger.

"Well… you know, she's done stuff. She's been out in the real world and she's not naïve anymore."

Joyce huffs as she accepts the cigarette that doesn't do anything to soften his words. "I'm not naïve either. And Chrissy is only two years older than me—same as you." Two-and-a-half, technically, since Joyce is a fall baby and Jim turned eighteen in February.

"Okay maybe you're not all that naïve, for a fifteen-year-old," he concedes grudgingly. He knows enough about her home life to know she doesn't see life through rose-coloured glasses. "But you're still young, and you would never do some of the things Chrissy's done," he says with a fond sort of smile that makes Joyce's stomach turn.

"Like screw a guy in the back of his dad's car?" Joyce fires, taking a second drag before handing it back. "I would so. Just because I haven't doesn't mean that I wouldn't," she says. "If it was the right guy, I mean."

"Riiight," Jim says, raising an eyebrow. "Have you ever even smoked pot, Joycie?"

"I've smoked pot _with you_!" She exclaims. "Remember? It was last summer, at that party Derek Derkins threw when his parents were in Michigan." It was the first time Joyce had ever had pot, and she hardly felt a thing. She'd been at Sandra's for a sleep-over when her older brother Derek decided to have a bunch of friends over, and they had been thrilled for a chance to hang out with the older kids at Hawkins High. That was the night she met Jim too… sort of, as he'd been high as a kite by the time Derek introduced him to his kid sister and her friend Joyce.

"Oh yeah!" He laughs. "I had forgotten about that party. Isn't that the time Benny Hammond put his arm through the window in the kitchen?"

It certainly was. Joyce had never seen so much blood, and Sandra had nearly fainted. "That's the one."

He blows out a puff of smoke, grinning. "Well, my point still stands: you're nothing like Chrissy."

"Yeah well we're more alike than you thought," Joyce insists, not sure why this is a big deal. Her mother always tells her she's too stubborn and obsessive. "And my point still stands: she didn't say yes to Prom because you were a total caveman when you asked her."

"I'll have you know I was a perfect gentleman," Hopper says, once again with that awful British accent.

"Okay there, Leopold." Joyce rolls her eyes. "Just remember what I said before you get turned down by every _other_ single girl in Hawkins."

From the corner of her eye, she can see his smug, self-satisfied smirk. "Oh don't you worry; there's a B-list that I'm sure will be willing."

"You're horrible," she says, grabbing the cigarette. A slow smile grows on her face, despite herself. "Although, if you're talking about Janice Belscher, then I know she's had a total crush on you for years but she's also a Sophomore. That would be low-hanging fruit, even for you."

" _You're_ a Sophomore," he points out.

"Yeah, but I'm not going to fall over myself the second some boy who only wants one thing asks me to Prom just because I want to be the only Sophomore there. I have standards, James Leopold."

"Right," he says, nodding. "Because you're no longer naïve."

"Right."

"Ah Joycie," he chuckles. "You have so much to learn."

"Not about this," Joyce says firmly. Watching her parents fight viciously for her entire childhood made her very wary about the sort of boys she dates. Not that she's had many dates… really, there was only Frank Sattler for two months in freshman year, before he told her he needed to focus on his studies.

But that's only because she's picky.

The warning bell rings for the start of sixth period, and a quiet sigh escapes Joyce's body before she even realises it.

Jim nudges her with his elbow, gingerly taking the Lucky from her injured hand. "Basketball again?"

Joyce nods pitifully. "I'm just hoping I can get out of it because of this," she holds up her bandaged hand. "How am I supposed to play with one hand?"

"From the sounds of it, you can hardly be worse than you were when you were whole."

She swats him with her good hand, laughing because he's probably right. "That's not a very nice thing to—wait, do you hear that?"

"If this is going to be another joke about-

"Hey! Who's down there?"

Like a fire had been lit under their asses, Jim and Joyce bolt upright and deadly still as they hear footsteps pounding on the stairs.

"Shit, it's Cooper," Jim hisses around the cigarette. "Go, GO!"

His long legs take him away from the scene of the crime much faster than Joyce's, and with her heart in her throat she turns and sees Mr. Cooper barreling towards them, stringy hair whipping around a tomato-red face as he shouts. "Hey! Hey, assholes, get back here! Get back here you two, you have class in two minutes!"

They don't slow down, but race full-tilt towards the woods at the edge of the property. Once she realises that the heavy-set Mr. Cooper will not be chasing them further than a few steps, Joyce's panic turns into hysteria as she laughs and flies after Jim.

He stops just inside the cover of the trees, panting, with the cigarette stub still dangling from his lips. "Holy shit; he came out of nowhere!"

Joyce can't stop laughing, holding her sides. "You should have seen his face! I thought his head was going to explode!"

Jim rests his hands on his knees, grinning and shaking his head. "What the fuck, right?"

She slumps to the ground, smoothing her hair back from her face, unable to suppress her smile. She barely notices the sharp pain it causes in her hand, and completely ignores the fact that she's messing up her best hair day this week. "I guess I'll be missing basketball after all," she says, then dissolves into another fit of giggles.

Hopper drags on the Lucky, then stubs it into the tree and laughs the smoke from his nose. "I guess so."

She sits back, resting her palms on the ground. Her trousers are probably going to have dirt staining her rear-end, but she doesn't care. She might as well play hooky for the rest of the day now, and who has she got to impress? James Leopold Hopper? "So what now? We can't go back!"

"No; Cooper'll be patrolling to see if he can catch us sneaking back. Do you think he saw it was us?"

"Come on Hop; he's old, but not blind."

"Well how close was he? We ran pretty fast!"

"Not so fast he couldn't see us. And if he asks anyone 'hey who was the tall boy and shrimpy girl I saw smoking under the stairs?' all it will take is one snitch because everyone knows that's us. We're there every day."

Joyce bounces back and forth between loving the friendliness of life in such a small town and absolutely hating the lack of privacy it provides. Later, she thinks, she'll be annoyed to no end by her lack of anonymity. But right now all she can do is laugh.

Jim looks on the verge of arguing, then thinks better of it, instead popping the top two buttons of his green and orange plaid shirt. "Well we definitely can't go back," he says. "So I guess we have free period until seventh. Or we just skip seventh."

"I can't skip seventh," Joyce says. "I have Math and I already skipped on Tuesday. We're doing special triangles or something and I have no idea what's going on."

"Okay, so we'll be back in time for seventh," Jim says. "Hey, have you been to that new store downtown… Melvin's, or something? We could go check it out."

"I think it's Melvald's," Joyce says. She's been thinking about applying for a job there, since they've just opened and must be needing help. "No, I haven't been there yet."

"Well come on then, let's go. We'll see if there's anything good there; George told me they have a ton of magazines and a whole shelf of chewing gum. We can find out if he's full of shit, as usual."

She hesitates. It's always the worst feeling to have to explain that you really can't afford to buy something so small as a stick of gum. It's hard enough having to hide the fraying sleeves of her sweaters from where she picks at them, or to sweat in her corduroy trousers in May because her mother won't let her leave the house in her old, hand-me-down spring dresses. Joyce is still short, but she's grown probably four inches since she got the dresses from her cousin and they hit just above her knee now, prompting Vera Horowitz to declare she "didn't raise no hussy" and confine her to pants.

Looking at Jim, it's like he can read all this on her face. And maybe he can; it's not like Joyce hasn't complained about the heat and her bitch of a mother to him a dozen times before.

"Come on," he says, gesturing for her to follow him. "It's on me. It'll be fun."

"Oh, no, thanks Hopper, but it's okay. I'll just look around." She smiles. "That will be fun enough."

"No I mean it. You'll have a whole shelf of flavours to choose from and you have to try at least one."

Her heart swells a little. "Thanks Jim, but I already bum your smokes—"

"I insist," he says, turning to walk away. "I'm practically rich now, since my grandpa sent me that graduation money. And I told you I'm going to work for my uncle at the steel mill in Lake County this summer, making a buck fifty an hour, right?"

Joyce smiles, lurching to her feet to catch up. "You'll be actually rich by the time September rolls around," she says, practically jogging to keep pace. "Well thanks again, Hop. I mean, I know you're only doing this to practice being a gentleman for when you ask your poor B-list girl to Prom, but still."

Jim chuckles, looking up at the sky as it appears beyond the trees. "Sure Joycie. Whatever you say."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ST3 left me with so many feelings, especially about Jopper. I mean, where are we going from here? I don't know. Where have we BEEN? I also don't know. But I thought it would be fun (and cathartic) to pick apart the clues from all three seasons of just WHAT their relationship was in high school and in the years afterward, hopefully to tide us all over until we can see them interact again. Because obviously, "the American," right?  
> So if there's anything in here or in the coming chapters that goes against canon, please let me know; I'd like this to be as tight as possible.  
> That said: the wiki says Hopper is born in '42 and Joyce in '48, but that's no good because we know they went to high school together, and as far as anything I could find about American high schools in the '60s, that means four years. So I made Hopper born in '46, to keep them in school at the same time, and also because Winona is actually older than David so it didn't make sense for Hop to be TOO much older than Joyce.  
> Finally: I'm Canadian, so Canadian spelling. SORRY.


	2. Night Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 1963
> 
> Hop is back for the first time since graduating, and he is more missed than he realised.

Jim can’t quite sort the feeling taking hold in his gut while he pulls into Hawkins High for the first time in five long months, but it’s possible it isn’t all bad. Partly he feels nostalgic, thinking back on all the time he spent here, but he also feels a sharp sense of satisfaction to have moved beyond this place and all those in it, to never _have_ to walk through those front doors again if he doesn’t want to. 

He pulls into the parking lot, tires crunching on the frost-encrusted leaves as he spins to a stop. He takes a moment to bask in the joy, now feeling like a returning conqueror as he pulls the keys from the ignition of his ’62 Impala, cutting off the radio.

He _had_ planned on coming back for Homecoming; Gary is only about a hundred miles from Hawkins, after all, and Uncle Geoff had told him that his car was available anytime Jim wanted to make the trip home. He’d been working hard all summer and decided to stay on at the mill into the fall, and Homecoming seemed like the perfect time to get back and visit his friends and see his folks. 

Then all that went out the window when he found out about the barely-driven Impala for sale at a knockdown price at a garage in Gary; he knew he needed to keep up his sixty hour work week and _then_ some to make her his as soon as possible.

And she _is_ a sweet thing, Jim thinks tenderly, with a convertible roof, all that chrome trim, and a stunning 380 brake horsepower engine. He wasn’t a huge fan of the bronzey-brown colour, at first, but as soon as he was handed the keys for the first time he practically fell in love.

It’s all worth it, in the end, because really, Thanksgiving is a more important holiday even if it _is_ over a month later. Plus, in light of all the extra hours he’s been putting in at work, they’ve agreed to give him the whole long weekend, starting with getting off at noon today.

Jim checks his watch as he strides towards the entrance to the school. It reads 3:38, so he has seven minutes until school lets out and he can pick up his cousin Donnie, like he promised his parents and Aunt Shirley.

He pulls his jacket closer around his body, eager to get inside and onto one of the benches outside the principal’s office to wait for Donnie. He chuckles to himself as he imagines the face of the secretary—Ms. Tait—when she sees him sitting there again like he never even left. He wasn’t especially a troublemaker… but there were a number of miscommunications, he supposes, that ended with frequent trips down the hall to visit Principal Amon. Thankfully he’d always had a knack for talking his way out of trouble.

The scent of tobacco wafts up at him as one boot lands on the steps, and Jim breathes it in deeply, fond memories popping into his head. Then, over the quiet whistling of the wind, he hears a soft sniff from below, and stops in his tracks. Another sniff—and was that a sob?

He climbs back down and marches to the other side of the steps—the hollow side—and spots a familiar-yet-somehow-not-familiar face.

“Hop!” Joyce starts, quickly looking away and wiping her face with her mittens. When she turns back to him she’s smiling around a cigarette. “They make a mistake letting you leave? I always knew that it had to be a joke that you graduated.”

The smile that crawls onto his face is warmer than he’s worn in a while. She looks different than last time he saw her: older, and the unruly brown hair that she and Sandra Derkins had bleached with lemon juice in June is now cut short and dyed a shade darker than her natural colour. Even with her cap tugged over her ears, the bangs and the sharp flip at her jaw give her a very mod look. And that eyeliner makes it look even a little bit tough. “Amon called me, begging me to come back and teach you young things the way of the big wide world.” Without thinking about it much, he slips into his old seat on the step supports, leaning against a beam. “But I see I’ve done a good enough job teaching _you_ the importance of skipping class every once in a while,” he says, reaching for her cigarette with a smirk. 

Her smile is a touch brighter, too, as she hands it to him. He spies the pack poking out of her old wool coat and frowns. “Marlboros, huh? You like your smokes that watered down?” He takes a drag, handing it back to her.

“I know, I know, no Luckys. But these were always my favourite, and I can afford my own now,” she says, lifting her chin proudly. “I got a job at Melvald’s for the summer, and I was working real good hours. They even kept me part-time for the school year.”

“Not bad at all. Well, welcome to the working class,” he says, pretending to raise a glass in a toast. “What does your mom say about the smoking”

“Oh, she still screams and hollers.” Her voice is steady, but the slight twitch of a muscle in her chin reveals that things haven’t really gotten better between Joyce and Vera Horowitz. A number of times that they met out here Joyce was fit to bursting—even by that time of day—with anger at something her witch of a mother had done that morning. Jim had heard stories that made his fights with _his_ parents seem practically endearing. “But I’m buying all my own shit now, practically, so we have something of an arrangement: she puts food on the table and doesn’t have to buy me shoes and shirts, and I smoke out the window.” She sniffs again, rubbing her nose. “And at school, of course.”

“I can see that,” Jim says slowly. “But why skip last period to sit out here? Why not hit the road, go into town or go home early for the long weekend?” Jim isn’t totally sure where Joyce lives, or how far from school, but he knows she always used to walk to and from Hawkins High. She could go anywhere from here. Why didn’t she? 

“Too fuckin’ cold,” Joyce says, her voice clipped. “Pauline has been giving me rides since the temperature dropped. I’d freeze to death otherwise.”

He had noticed she wasn’t really dressed for walking in this weather; her tweed skirt, striped sweater, and knitted cap are sensible enough, he supposes, but her dark green tights look threadbare, as does her dad’s old, giant WWII coat, and instead of any kind of boot she wears Chucks at least a size too big lined with plastic bags and her wool socks folded overtop. Jim can only see the bags because one has come untucked.

But it’s fifteen degrees out here—colder than it has any business being in _November_ —and she keeps rubbing her calves to keep warm. Jim’s freezing too, and he just got out of his car.

Joyce folds her knees to hide her feet from his gaze, and he can’t tell if it’s subconscious or not. “Anyway, I might just end up walking home after all.” She hands him her cigarette again.

He pushes it back at her. “I’ve got the feeling you need that more than me right now.” He pulls out his own pack, and Joyce gasps.

“Camels! You’re not smoking Luckys anymore either?”

Jim shrugs, smiling as he pulls a cigarette from the pack. “Nah, I started smoking these this summer when my uncle kept buying the wrong ones.” Uncle Geoff was a kind man of few words, a hard-working, blue-collar American through and through. And anytime Jim cleaned up his apartment, or brought the car back with a full tank, a pack of Camels was the way Geoff showed his gratitude, and Jim never had the heart to point out that he wasn’t in the habit of smoking them.

Jim leans forward, cigarette held in his teeth, and after a short pause and his raised eyebrows, Joyce starts fumbling in her pockets for her lighter. He can feel his, pressed on his left hip as usual, so he’s not sure what made him wait for hers. It’s not like he doesn’t light his own smokes every other day of his life.

“So… so I guess you just developed a taste for them?” Joyce says, relaxing a tad when she at least gets the thing lit on the first try. She blocks the wind with her hand, scooting forward to bring the flame to the end of the cigarette while her own stays held between her lips.

Jim holds still while she lights it, noticing the tiniest tremor in her hands. “Yeah, and now I don’t think I’ll ever go back.”

Joyce meets his gaze just then with unusual directness, and for a moment Jim gets a glimpse of the emotions roiling beneath the surface of her brown eyes. Why _was_ she out here crying in the freezing cold?

“How come you weren’t back for Homecoming?” she asks, looking away.

Jim perks up. “I needed to work the extra hours.” He leans back, unable to fight his grin. “You might have thought you heard a tiger in the parking lot just a few minutes ago, but I’ll have you know that’s my new baby—a 1962 Chevy Impala.”

Joyce raises her eyebrows, then gives some mock applause while Jim sits there beaming. “Well congratulations.”

“Thank you. I feel like a proud father.”

She smiles. “You boys and your toys…”

Then her lip trembles, and she starts to cry.

Jim is so shocked he just stares at her for a long ten seconds. _What did I do?_ “Joyce,” he says, finally recovering. “Joycie, hey,” he moves closer, trying to peer into her face which is pressed down into her mittens. He notices the left one has a quarter-sized hole unravelling in the thumb. “What is it? What did I say?”

She composes herself quickly; when she lifts her face a moment later, her tears have stopped, and her eyes aren’t even red. Her chin still quivers a little, and she sniffs pitifully a few times, but the brief, alarming outburst seems to be over. Her cigarette is nearly finished, but she takes one long drag, holding her breath while she tosses the stub into the snow. “It’s nothing… it’s just…” she raises her arms then drops them to her lap, her voice cracking. “It’s been a _shit_ day, Hop. On top of a _shit_ week.”

Her breathing starts coming heavier again, and Jim isn’t sure what to do. This was always the part of his relationship with girls he tried to avoid, and he’s certainly never had to deal with tears from a girl he’s not sleeping with. “Well, what happened?”

“It’s kind of a long story,” she says, wrapping her arms around her middle now. “And it’s so dumb… just about a dumb boy and especially my _dumb_ friends.” She looks up at him again, and this time he sees more than a flash of emotion in her eyes. She’s hurt, and _furious._ “Do you ever not like your friends so much?”

He half smiles. “Sometimes. What happened?”

She sighs. “It’s just… do you remember Henry Lloyd?”

Jim nods. “Yeah, he’s a senior this year, right?”

“Right. Well, Pauline heard from George Burness—you know him? He’s real close with Henry—that Henry was into me, I guess. She told me at lunch one day a couple of weeks ago when we were sitting with Jeanine, and they were both really excited, saying how they were going to help me get him because they knew that I’d had a crush on him, or whatever, since the Fair on Labour Day weekend.” She bites her lip, closing her eyes tight. “So things seem to be going well, until all of a sudden Henry asks Jeanine out, and she says yes. She’d been spending some time with him since they sit near each other in Science class, but I thought she was talking me up to him, since that’s what Pauline said she was doing and Pauline _is_ her lab buddy.

“But then today I find out from Pauline that she _knew_ Jeanine was just flirting with Henry, but didn’t tell me because I ‘need to learn to chase after boys myself.’” Joyce takes another deep, steadying breath. “And they both think that they haven’t done anything really wrong, and that I should just get over it. Even Sandra won’t take my side about it because she wasn’t there at lunch that day, and we sit on the opposite side of the class in science from the others, _and_ because she says she _does_ think I’m a little too shy with boys.”

It’s a lot to take in, and Jim is a bit overwhelmed. He takes a puff from his cigarette, stalling a little while he thinks. “That’s… that’s really rough.”

Joyce nods. “Fucking bitches.” Then, unexpectedly, she grins. “And I told them to their faces.”

Jim’s eyes go wide. “You called them fucking bitches to their faces?”

Joyce nods, though now her smile is flickering, and her eyes watering. “Yeah,” she wipes the tears away as they fall. “Not Sandra, specifically. But the other two. And Pauline called me an unhinged nutcase, and Jeanine called me a two-faced, psycho slut, which doesn’t even make sense because _I_ wasn’t the one lying to my friends and _throwing_ myself at Henry! Plus Jeanine knows I’ve never…” she trails off, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Anyway. I’m skipping science right now because I can’t stand to even _look_ at them.”

Science used to be her favourite class, Jim remembers. She never used to skip it. “Well, at least it’s Thanksgiving,” he offers, “and you won’t have to see any of them for almost a week.”

“Yeah, and then I’ll spend the holiday holed up at home with my _loving_ mother,” she says bitterly. “And I feel so…” she sighs, “so stupid, because obviously everyone in the country is still shaken up, and it’s Thanksgiving so we’re all supposed to be thankful that no one shot _us_ dead while we were driving around, but here I am skipping class and bawling because my friends were mean to me.”

“I know what you mean, actually,” Jim says, taking a drag, and offering her his cigarette. Joyce waves it away. “This girl that I had kind of been seeing called me that night and said we couldn’t see each other anymore. She said Kennedy’s death just reminded her that life is short and all that shit, and she needed to focus on the big picture.” He shrugs, though it still stings to remember being outright told that you’re not good enough to be in someone’s “big picture.” Especially when he’d been driving to Chicago to see her every Sunday—his only day off—for two months now. “I was so pissed, it was like nothing else about JFK being shot mattered except that this girl dumped me because of it. I didn’t think about Mrs. Kennedy, or their kids, or the whole damn country being a mess, just me.”

Joyce nods. “Exactly. It just feels like there’s so much more important crap than this but it still just _sucks._ ”

Over their heads, the bell rings, signalling the end of school for the day. Joyce looks up, then sighs once more. “But I’d rather _be_ shot dead than sit in a car with Pauline right now though,” she says, and when she looks back at Jim her eyes are clear. “She can go straight to hell.”

Jim laughs, and even Joyce cracks a smile. He stands, ducking his head to exit the steps, then offers his hand. “Well, if you want, I can drive you home.” He takes another look at her shoes as he helps her stand, deciding he won’t take no for an answer. “I’m here to pick up Donnie as a favour to my aunt, who’s madly making stuffing and cranberry sauce for tomorrow and can’t come get him.” He steps away from the stairs to give his cousin a chance to see him when he leaves the building, and looks at Joyce. “It’ll give me a chance to show off my _new_ girl.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “You can even pick the radio station.”

“Ooh, she _sings_ too?” Joyce asks, shoving her hands in her pockets. “Colour me impressed. How can I say no to that?”

“You really can’t,” Jim replies, waving his hand as he sees Donnie looking around from the middle of the doorway, blocking the exit for the horde behind him, who immediately start shoving. “Donald!” He shouts, waving his arm above his head at the freshman.

Donnie grabs his books tighter and rushes down the steps, brushing his hair back from his face. He smiles up at Jim. “Wow, hi Jim! Mom didn’t tell me you were coming home for Thanksgiving this year!”

“It’s always nice to be a pleasant surprise,” he says, grinning. “Donnie, are you going to introduce yourself to the lady?”

As if seeing Joyce for the first time, Donnie tries to reach out his hand but ends up dropping a textbook, then another as he tries to catch it. Soon half of his supplies are on the ground. “Oh… darn it!” He bends to grab it all quickly, but when Jim clears his throat he stands straight, sheepishly holding out his hand again. “I’m Donald, but most people call me Donnie.”

Joyce bites her lip and takes his hand, shaking it firmly. “I’m Joyce. Nice to meet you.”

“But most people call her Joycie,” Jim adds, grinning down at Joyce while Donnie scrambles once more to gather his school supplies. “Don’t they, Joycie?”

“No, they do not,” Joyce says, glaring at him while she helps the younger boy gather his textbooks. She holds on to two of them, knowing he’s overloaded. “Not if they like their teeth _in_ their head,” she whispers, so only Jim can hear.

He laughs, bumping her with his shoulder. Not very hard, mind, but Joyce is much smaller than he is and she practically goes flying, catching herself on the bike rack.

Donnie’s jaw drops when he sees Jim’s new car looking between his cousin and the vehicle as if waiting for Jim to tell him to quit being so gullible and of course his _actual_ car is that beater in the corner of the lot. But Jim just grins at the boy’s reverential stare, patting the soft top above the driver’s door. “She’s sweet, huh?”

Donnie nods, eyes still huge. “Is it a sixty-three?”

“Sixty-two,” Jim says proudly. “Barely driven, so I got her for a song.”

Donnie adjusts the books in his arms to reach for the door. He holds it open for Joyce, smiling politely, but Jim frowns.

“Not happening,” he barks. “Ladies get the front, squirt.”

Abashed, Donnie climbs in the backseat, putting the stack of school supplies beside him on the bench. Jim swings into the driver’s seat as Joyce slides in beside him, biting back a smile. “I’ll bet that’s the first time you’ve tried to keep a girl _out_ of your backseat.”

Jim starts the car, grinning at her. “She hasn’t been broken in like _that_ yet, but oh, that day will come.”

“Broken in like what?” Donnie asks, sticking his head between the seats. “You’ve never had anyone sit in the back? Am I the very first?”

“Yeah kid, you sure are the first to _take a_ _ride_ in the back,” Joyce says mischievously. She raises an eyebrow in Hopper’s direction. “Not the last, though, I’m sure”

He nods. “Maybe one day I’ll even get a ride back there,” he says seriously.

Donnie frowns. “Why would you ride in your own backseat?”

“No better place, kid, trust me.”

Joyce snorts, covering her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“To be sure, it can get bumpy back there,” he says, watching Joyce from the corner of his eye. “And it’s not exactly glamourous, but it has its charms. A bit less spacious than some, but if you know what you’re doing you can sure make the most of it.”

Joyce swats his arm. “Hop!”

“What?” He leans in, whispering: “I can keep going.”

“I think we’ve had enough car sex metaphors,” Joyce whispers back. “You’re going to scar the poor kid.”

“He’s thirteen, not three,” he says, scoffing. “It’s not like he doesn’t think about sex. There isn’t a thirteen-year-old boy in the country who wouldn’t jump at the chance to have sex in the back of _any_ car, let alone one this sexy.”

“Okay, that’s an exaggeration,” Joyce says, looking quickly over her shoulder. “Besides, I’m pretty sure he’s fourteen. Freshmen have to be fourteen.”

“Even better. Fourteen-year-old boys are even randier than thirteen-year-old ones.”

Joyce sits back in her chair. “You are impossible.” She points out the window. “Turn left here.”

Donnie, seeming to understand that they’re finally done whispering about him, leans forward again. “So, Joyce, are you coming to Uncle Fred and Aunt Mary’s for Thanksgiving tomorrow?”

Jim raises his eyebrows, trying to catch Donnie’s eye in the mirror, but his cousin is busy staring at Joyce, completely enraptured, and doesn’t notice.

Joyce hesitates. “No… no my mom and I are going to get my grandpa from Indianapolis and bring him home for dinner tomorrow. We’ll probably all listen to the game, too.” She turns around in her seat to face him. “Does your family have a big get-together for the holiday?”

Donnie once again seems confused, but nods. “Yeah… we usually spend the whole day at the Hoppers’—my family, and our cousins from West Virginia come up for the weekend too. We play football or something, when it’s not so cold, and then there’s so much food we’re eating leftovers all weekend.” A mischievous grin creeps onto his face. “Jim even brought us beer last year!”

“And Jim told you that that had to stay _strictly confidential_ ,” he says, pointing at his cousin in the mirror. “It’s hard enough for _me_ to get my hands on booze, and it’ll only get worse if either of our mothers find out about it.”

“That sounds like a really good time.” Joyce points at another street, and Jim turns. “Maybe it will warm up enough for you to play football, too. This cold spell is killing us all, but it can’t last forever. It’s the second right up there, Hop.”

He obliges.

“So… you’re not going to be there for any of it?” Donnie looks between the two of them. “Wait, aren’t you guys… courting?”

Jim bursts out laughing, and from the corner of his eye he can see Joyce biting her lip, trying not to laugh at the poor kid too. “No, we are not _courting_ ,” he says, trying to make the word sound as high-brow as possible. “Jeez, don’t you think I’d have been around more this fall if I’d been ‘courting’ a girl in Hawkins?”

“No,” Joyce answers quickly, on Donnie’s behalf. “I mean, you’d have been in town more, sure, but as far as your family is concerned you might as well be in _Florida_ if you’re only back in Hawkins to visit a girl.”

_She’s not wrong_ , Jim thinks.

“Oh,” Donnie says, clearly mortified. “I just… I thought you were seeing each other.”

“No, but that’s okay. Hopper just offered to drive me home,” Joyce says. “And speaking of: this is me right up here: seventy-five Wrightley drive.”

Jim pulls right up into the driveway, cutting the engine. Joyce looks over at him with a raised eyebrow, but he leaves the keys in the ignition and steps out of the car. He starts to walk over to the passenger side, but Joyce must not realise he intends to get the door for her as she does it herself, shivering as she slips out into the frigid air.

He was half going to do it as a joke, half to be polite, but now he’s remembering Henry Lloyd and that Joyce probably has never had a boy open her door for her, and he realises it’s probably best that he didn’t even half tease her.

But he does walk her to the door, shoulders hunched in his coat. Has the temperature dropped even more in the last five minutes? He shoves his hands in his pockets, stepping onto the stoop of the small one-story home, where at least the wind can’t assault him.

“Thanks so much for the drive, Hop,” Joyce says, fishing for her keys in the many pockets of her jacket. “I would probably have froze to death out here.”

“No problem,” he says. “Is your mom not home?”

She finds the key on an old Niagra falls souvenir keychain. “No, not until late. She works to close tonight, so I probably won’t see her until tomorrow morning. I mean, ideally I won’t see her until then,” she says with a shrug. “So it’s just me and Patchy tonight.”

“Patchy?”

Joyce cocks her head. “I never told you about Patchy? Patchy the cat?”

A grin grows on his face. “No; you named your cat _Patchy?_ ”

“I was _eight_ ,” she says. “He was a feral cat I found out back all beaten up by something. Mom wasn’t going to let me keep him but I just kept on trying to help him that eventually he just wouldn’t go away. He’s a crotchety old codger now, but not so bad.” She fumbles with the keys. “I didn’t realise I never told you about him.”

“I’m sure I’ve been cheated of a number of great stories,” he deadpans.

Joyce gives him a dry look over her shoulder as she opens the door. “He’s a _good_ cat. Anyway, I better let you go before you freeze to my doorstep. Thanks again for dropping me off, Hop. And happy Thanksgiving.”

“Same to you.”

Donnie has moved to the front seat when Jim gets back to the car. He gives his cousin a hard look. “Next time, maybe don’t ask people you’ve just met if they’re coming to Thanksgiving, huh?”

Donnie flushes, looking down in his lap. “I thought she was your girlfriend—when you were being all whispery I figured that’s what that meant.”

Jim chuckles, starting the car and peeling out of the driveway. “Yeah, well it’s better not to assume, okay?”

He grumbles out an “okay,” before perking up once more. “Well did you invite her over for any part of the weekend? If you’re friends, then she could still come, right?”

“Why, do _you_ have a crush on her?” Jim asks, lightly punching his cousin’s leg. “She’s a bit old for you.”

“How old is she?”

“Sixteen,” Jim answers. “And no, I didn’t invite her over. We’re friends but… I guess we’re not that kind of friends.” Even as he says it, it sounds strange. He can count on one hand the number of real conversations he’s had with Joyce Horowitz outside of their alcove under the high school steps, but they talked about practically everything under the sun during those ritual smoke breaks. Hell, as of today she’s cried in front of him, and he didn’t even run the other way.

Still, they aren’t _friends_ like that. After all, she’s still in high school while he’s a grown man living in another city. That has to mean they can’t really be _friends_.

“So she’s two years older than me and two younger than you,” Donnie says, crossing his arms. “That’s not that weird.”

“Well ask her out then,” Jim says, thinking of how much he’d be willing to pay to be a fly on the wall for _that_ conversation. “Ask her to the winter formal.”

Donnie is quiet. “I don’t have a crush on her,” he admits. “Anyway, I’m just saying I thought you guys were cour—that you were involved. I didn’t mean to be impolite."

Jim ruffles Donnie’s hair, and the smaller boy is quiet. “Don’t worry. Joyce is tough—she won’t be offended.”

Donnie nods, looking out the window. “It must be sad to be alone on Thanksgiving,” he muses.

Jim drums his fingers on the gear shift. “She’s not really alone,” he says, thinking more of Patchy the cat than of Vera Horowitz. From all he’s heard of that woman, Joyce would better enjoy Thanksgiving completely alone than with her. 

“I guess.” Donnie turns back to Jim, smiling. “I’m glad _we_ have a big family to celebrate with, though.”

Jim smiles too. “Me too, kiddo.”

_Back on Wrightley dr. Joyce Horowitz closes and locks her front door behind her, watching the Chevy drive away through the frosted glass. She goes to pet Patchy the cat, perched on the shoe rack, but the cat jumps down and walks away. Joyce smiles._

_And she starts to cry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter that wrote itself, minus doing research on everything from car engines to north-west Indiana temperatures to JFK to the history of the draft in America... but it was fun!  
> One question for you readers though: the wiki (which I do NOT trust, for a few reasons) says that Hopper is a Vietnam Vet, but I can't for the life of me remember anything in the show that tells us that for sure. Do we actually know that Jim served in 'Nam, or is that something that is just assumed given his age during the time the draft was still in place?  
> If anyone knows of a time when it's revealed on the show, I would be much obliged if you'd pass that on.  
> I'd also be much obliged for comments of any kind, though, so even if you don't have that info, don't be shy :) and thanks for reading!


	3. Mixed Signals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 31, 1963  
> It's new year's eve. The alcohol isn't going to drink itself, and the questionable decisions CERTAINLY aren't going to make themselves.

December 31 1963

Maybe Sandra doesn’t know her brother as well as she thinks, but Joyce is absolutely certain that Derek Derkins _means it_ when he says that he will leave without them if they aren’t ready in five minutes.

“It’s _nine seventeen_ ,” he shouts from the bottom of the stairs. “And I swear to God if you’re not _in_ my car at nine twenty-two then I am _going to leave you here!_ ”

Sandra just giggles, then swears mildly as she smudges her eyeliner. She’s been applying it for ten minutes—since even before Derek started yelling at them to hurry up—and still isn’t happy with it.

“You’re _so_ lucky, Joyce,” she says, stepping back and looking at herself in the mirror for the thirty-third time. “Your eyes are so much bigger than mine—you can still look so good without wearing _any_ eyeliner.”

Joyce rolls her eyes as Sandra leans back towards the mirror, returning to her left eye. “I _am_ wearing eyeliner.”

“I know,” Sandra says. “But you don’t _have_ to, like I do.”

“You’re beautiful Sandra, you know that.” Joyce is running out of patience; she wants to get to Benny’s for this damned party and if they miss their ride with Derek they’ll have to spend New Year’s eve alone in Sandra’s house, with only her dog for company.

Sandra smiles at Joyce, all dimples. “Aw, thanks Joyce. You’re just the sweetest.”

“I am, aren’t I?” She says airily, and even smiles a little at Sandra’s loud giggle. Sandra—even at her most vapid—is hard not to like at least a little. Joyce isn’t sure she’s ever met someone as consistently cheery as Sandra Derkins. “But we are going to get left behind if we don’t finish now. Your eyes look great.”

Sandra turns around, looking nervous. “Do they look okay? I wanted to use Mom’s blue eyeshadow but I think she took it with her.”

“They look huge, like baby deer eyes,” Joyce affirms, rolling off of Sandra’s bed and standing. “David isn’t going to be able to keep his eyes off you.”

“It’s his _hands_ on me I want,” Sandra whispers, looking delighted to say something so scandalous. She let her summer boyfriend—a guy from summer camp named… Kevin? Joyce is pretty sure it was Kevin—put his hands up her shirt a couple of times and she hasn’t stopped talking about it since. Listening to Sandra you’d think she’s become some sort of sex guru.

“Ooh,” Joyce says, giggling a little because it’s what she should do. The idea of a boy with his hands on her breasts makes her spine stiffen and her heart race—and not in a good way. She can’t imagine it felt _all_ as good as Sandra says, and Joyce wishes her friend could realise how ridiculous she sounds.

She tugs at the hem of her skirt over her tights, hoping she won’t be cold tonight, knowing she will.

“Stop fussing,” Sandra commands, finally putting the cap on the eyeliner pencil. “You look smashing.” She spins around, smiling coyly. “Henry is going to eat his little heart out,” she says, reaching for Joyce’s arm. “Really, you look lovely.”

“I’m not interested in Henry anymore,” Joyce explains for the half-millionth time. A few weeks after her Thanksgiving blow-up, Pauline had snootily told Sandra in English class that she should stop wearing orange because it made her look like an Indian, Jeanine had laughed like the idiotic hyena she is, and Sandra—whose family has Algonquin heritage on her mother’s side—had been so offended and hurt she’d just gotten up and left, not turning back for a moment. Since then she’s been on Joyce’s side about the whole Henry situation, although she seems to keep forgetting that Joyce has decided any boy who would stick his tongue into Jeanine’s mouth—which Henry does quite often—has got to be dumber than dirt and about as worthless. She’s over him. But Sandra isn’t.

“I just mean he’ll realise what an idiot he was,” she says. “And he _is_.”

“He probably won’t even be coming tonight,” Joyce reminds her friend. “I heard Pauline saying they’re doing something exclusive at Jeanine’s because her parents are at the chalet for a week. Henry will be there, I’m sure.” She tugs at her skirt again. “This thing is too short, are you sure you don’t have anything that would work for me?”

Sandra grabs her lime green sweater from the bed, biting her lip. “I don’t think so, Joyce. You’re quite a bit slimmer than I am…” a polite way of putting it; Joyce is skinny as a rail. As her mom is fond of saying, she’s ‘a pole with tits’. “Besides, I told you already that skirt looks _so_ good on you. Short skirts are _in_ —I read about it in _Seventeen_ just last week.”

“You said it looked slutty.”

“I said it looked _cute_ and a _little_ slutty! In a good way!”

Joyce shakes her head, running her fingers through her hair. Her bangs are getting long, they need cut again. “I just don’t want to look sleazy on New Year’s Eve.”

Sandra touches her arm again, handing Joyce her own sweater—nothing cute and green like Sandra’s, just plain black—while heading out the door. “You don’t; you look cute and cool, and even a little edgy. Now come on!”

Joyce watches Sandra leave, taking in her trim brown skirt and crisp white blouse, with the green cardigan neatly worn overtop and thick, green wool stockings to match.

Her own outfit is so plain by comparison, and not particularly fashionable one way or another: her tights are thin and grey, her skirt, long-sleeved shirt, and sweater are all black, though her shirt has dark red stripes on it. She doesn’t have anything really more festive than this, though, and while she wanted to look nice for the party she also wanted to be _warm_.

And she won’t be—Benny’s house is fairly small, and most of the time at parties there they spend half the time outside on the back porch for fresh air and room to move. Which is nice in the summer, but not so much when it’s thirteen degrees out. 

Derek makes a show of pulling away as they reach for the door of his car, making Sandra shriek and slam her fist down on the roof. A shouting match ensues, where the two of them call each other all kinds of vile names while Joyce slips into the backseat. She pulls her skirt down, closer to her knees, and zips up her coat. The car is warm from Derek running it while he waited, but she’s still cold, as usual.

The drive to Benny’s place is about ten minutes, and Sandra talks the whole time. She argues with Derek about which turn he should take to get there, about if Benny’s address number is 171 or 177, whether Frank and Ellen were still dating, and then whether or not it had been Frank who cheated on Ellen or the other way around…

“You don’t even _go_ to HHS anymore,” Sandra says, fully turned in her seat to face her brother. “How would you even _know?_ ”

When they aren’t arguing, Sandra is chatting about how she’s so excited because Benny’s parties are always the best, and she can’t believe Joyce has never been to one before (as if this won’t be Sandra’s second ever). Joyce smiles and nods along, half-listening and looking out the window at the dark, snow-covered countryside lit up by a nearly-full moon. Everything glows eerily, but it looks so peaceful.

She wishes she could just be out there, laying in the shallow snow, staring up at the sky for hours without losing any warmth. Maybe then she’d finally relax.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to go to the New Year’s party. On the contrary, she’s glad she’s going; New Year’s only comes around once a year, after all. And most of the time, when Joyce does go do something social she ends up having a pretty good time, but still; parties really aren’t her thing, and Sandra’s frankly alarming excitement about this one has her on edge. Looking forward to anything _that_ much only means it will never live up to your expectations, Joyce has learned.

Oh well. It’s not like she’s gotten _herself_ so psyched about this party, so _she_ won’t be the one disappointed at the end of the night. She refuses to think it will be anything too special, even if Benny Hammond is known for the great times he hosts when his dad’s out of town.

Joyce remembers him faintly from two years ago at school—he never graduated—and while he did (and does) have the reputation of being completely wild, he’s the sort of guy who’s always nice to everyone. Joyce has heard that’s because he supposedly showed up at least a little drunk and/or high to class every day, but she isn’t one to judge another’s coping mechanisms. He was a friend of Jim’s, and the one time he came to find Jim with an “emergency” (Dale and Bev’s very public break up on the quad… again) between fifth and sixth, he had been friendly and kind to her, and she tries to remember people like that.

The sudden volume of noise when Sandra opens the car door almost immediately gives Joyce a headache, and it only seems to get louder when Derek cuts the engine and her friend drags her from the backseat. She can hear her heart hammering in her ears, and everything suddenly seems so bright.

 _Please, please go away_ , Joyce thinks, closing her eyes tightly against the growing hyper-sensitivity. _Not tonight, please, I just want to have a good time…_

“Come on!” Sandra keeps a firm grip on her hand as she pulls Joyce towards the front door at such a speed they would have fallen flat on the ice if Joyce wasn’t wearing slightly more practical shoes with better traction than Sandra’s cute little Mary Janes.

She knocks at least forty times on the front door, and Joyce shifts her weight from foot to foot, already chilly.

“Who’s bringing you booze?”

She turns at Derek’s voice over her shoulder. “Us?”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Yes, you. You _do_ have someone getting you alcohol, don’t you?”

“Merv Cobus,” Sandra says, before Joyce gets a chance to reply. “His cousin buys for him all the time, so he said he could get us some vodka for a good price.”

Derek pulls a face. “I’d rather go dry than drink cheap vodka. You’ll be hating yourself in a few hours.”

Sandra all but stamps her foot, reaching into her purse and pulling out a jar filled with a peachy-pink liquid. “We’ve got cranberry orange juice to mix it with,” she says proudly. “So it won’t matter… as much.”

Joyce’s heart sinks even further. She had meant to get some juice for tonight, but she totally forgot during the hours she spent trying to find a good outfit and working a last-minute shift this morning. “Shit.”

Sandra turns to her, brow furrowed, but just then the door swings open and Benny is there, welcoming them in with his lips curled around a joint and a grin, and she is for a moment forgotten.

It isn’t quite as busy on the inside as she was expecting, though there still isn’t a lot of spare room. There’s a group of five or six playing some drinking game in the kitchen, with more people sitting on every available surface, drinking, talking, and smoking.

Joyce pulls her own Marlboros from her pocket as she and Sandra thread through the crowd, looking for Mervin.

She looks around for familiar faces, but while she recognizes most of these people from school, most of them are a couple of years older than her and Sandra, and there aren’t many that she’d call her own friends.

But she spots Angie’s dark bob turned around and fiddling with the record player, and Nick and Jim playing cards and smoking in the corner with two girls she doesn’t recognize.

She takes a deep drag of the cigarette, feeling her headache start to fade, and her shoulders start to relax.

Merv is out back, rolling a joint, and looks up with a smile when he sees them. Joyce counts out the right amount of hard-earned dollars from her pocket, and Sandra does the same, and they walk away with a 26er of cheap, cheap vodka.

She realises how cheap it is the second it hits her tongue, even masked by Sandra’s orange-cranberry concoction and the cup that may not be fully clean. Joyce has never even had vodka before—she’s had rum, and that was okay—but that doesn’t stop her from lamenting the fact that she doesn’t have a rich father with a well-stocked liquor cabinet she can steal from as the awful fluid burns its way down her throat.

Sandra makes a face as she tops up their glasses. “Next time we get whiskey. And lemonade.”

Joyce adds more vodka to each cup, offering hers in a mock-toast. “Whatever you say. Thanks again for letting me have some of your juice.”

Sandra smiles. “What kind of friend would I be if I made you drink this stuff straight?” She clinks her cup to Joyce’s. “Although we might be forced to such drastic measures before too long. But hopefully we won’t be tasting it much by then.”

 _Let’s hope so,_ Joyce thinks, taking another sip. The ratio of liquor to juice is better this time, and her body reacts less strongly to the strength of the alcohol, though she still shivers as it lands in her belly. She should have eaten more for dinner; she’s going to be drunk in ten minutes at this rate.

“I think I saw my cousin Cathy back there,” Sandra says, once their drinks are mixed well enough and the remaining ingredients are stored safely in her purse. “She lives in Indianapolis, so you wouldn’t know her, but I think you’ll really like her.” She grabs Joyce’s hand, already pulling her back towards the living room. “Come on!”

Sandra leads her to the card table tucked in the corner. Jim and Nick are still there, but only one of the girls. The game seems to have just finished. “Cathy!” Sandra calls.

The tall, dark-haired girl with her back to them turns, eyes alighting when she sees Sandra. “Sandy, hey! I didn’t know Derek was bringing you along tonight!” She stands, giving her cousin a firm hug and the two boys at the table a good look at her backside in a skirt even shorter than Joyce’s.

Joyce catches Jim’s eye and he flushes a little—caught in the act—before grinning and winking at her. Joyce rolls her eyes, but smiles.

Cathy turns and smiles at her, and Joyce can’t help but smile back. She’s incredibly beautiful, with long, straight hair, olive skin and hazel eyes. Joyce isn’t surprised to find Jim sitting beside _her_ that’s for sure. “Hi, I’m Cathy, Sandra’s favourite cousin,” she says, offering her hand to Joyce.

Joyce takes it quickly, hoping her palms aren’t clammy. “I’m Joyce, nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Cathy says, with another thousand-watt smile. “Sandra has told me about you! You’re a firecracker, aren’t you?”

Joyce blushes, looking down. “I mean, I suppose…”

Cathy puts her hand on her arm. “No, I mean that in a _good_ way! I’m always telling Sandy she’s got to learn to stand up for herself; when she told me about you standing up to those girls last month I practically cheered.” She gives Joyce a knowing look, one that makes her wonder how girls like Cathy can make someone feel like they’ve been friends for years, instead of strangers who met ninety seconds ago. “I’ve been hoping to meet you since then.”

“A firecracker is a good word for Joyce,” Sandra agrees, beaming at her friend. “She’s kicked my butt a couple of times when I needed it, too.”

Joyce barely hears the snort that Jim Hopper tries to muffle into his bottle of beer. “Ah, thanks,” she says, smiling back at Sandra.

“Christine is here too, have you seen her yet?” Cathy asks, looking over their heads across the room. _There’s no way she’s a hair under five-ten,_ Joyce thinks, but for some reason she doesn’t feel small. “She was just here, but I think she was going to change her shirt. She’ll be back in a minute, do you want to join our game?”

“What are you playing?” Sandra asks.

“Euchre,” Nick says, gathering the cards and leaning back in his chair. “It’s a four-player game, but we can play something else.”

“Yeah, what do you guys like to play?” Cathy asks, holding out her chair for Sandra and gesturing for her to sit. “Do you guys know if Benny has any poker chips?”

Nick nearly falls out of his chair jumping up to offer it to Joyce, who accepts it while biting back a smile.

Across the table, Jim grins up at her. “Have you ever even played cards before?”

Joyce conjures up the dirtiest look she can muster, but Hopper only shrugs and lights a smoke.

Cathy turns to Joyce, her eyes wide. “Oh no! Are your parents way old school too?” She takes one of the chairs Nick drags from the kitchen and sits down beside Joyce. “My dad is like that—he thinks all cards are hand-printed by Satan himself.”

Joyce picks at the edge of the table, smiling. “He and my mom would get along.”

Cathy laughs. “Honestly! My mom is better about it, at least. She was a barmaid when she was a teenager, and she knows how to play just about everything, though of course Dad doesn’t know. She taught Christine and me how to play Texas Hold ‘Em when I was eleven.” She looks up. “And speak of the angel!”

Joyce turns to see a girl a couple of years older than Cathy striding towards the table, taller and, if possible, more beautiful. She offers a cool smile to the table. “What are you up to?” She peers over Nick’s shoulder, taking the cards from his hand and pulling up a chair to his other side. “Are we corrupting some innocent young ladies?” She looks up at Joyce and Sandra, winking at her cousin.

Jim looks absolutely starstruck, and Joyce bites her tongue against a laugh. _He has bitten off more than he can chew with these two_. “I think so,” she says. “I don’t really know how to play anything.”

“Me neither,” Sandra admits. “I mean, my parents aren’t against cards, but I only know how to play Old Maid.”

“You know how to play Kemps,” Christine points out. “And that’s an easy one to teach to…” she trails off, raising her eyebrows.

“I’m Joyce.” Joyce holds out her hand, which Christine shakes once, firmly.

“Christine Dasgenais,” she replies. “You know how to play Kemps?”

“Is that the one with the partners, and the signals?” Sandra asks.

Cathy nods. “Yep. It’s very easy, Joyce, I’m sure you’ll pick it up lickety-split.” She stands as Christine starts dealing the cards—four to each person. “Switch spots with me, Jimmy; I’ll be Joyce’s first partner.”

They rearrange the table so Joyce is across from Cathy, Jim is across from Nick, and Christine is across from Sandra.

Cathy explains the rules while Christine idly shuffles the rest of the cards—the game seems simple enough: you pass cards around, trying to get four of a kind, and once you do you give your partner your secret signal.

“But if anyone else guesses your signal and smacks the table first, you lose, and then you and your partner have to drink double.” Cathy finishes. “Got it?”

Sandra nods, but Joyce has a few more questions. “So we should be watching the other pairs then?” She asks. “What if you think you see them signal, but you’re wrong?”

“Then you’ve got to drink double instead,” Christine responds. “So best be sure.”

“And everyone has to drink but you and your partner, if you do it all right?”

Nick turns to her. “Do you always ask so many questions?” He smiles, and Joyce can tell he’s trying to be lighthearted, but she still finds herself taking offense.

Jim snorts. “Only ‘cause she uses the stuff between her ears, unlike you,” he says around the cig dangling from his mouth.

Cathy nods, ignoring both boys, who now seem to be engaged in a kick-fight under the table. “Yes. Obviously you want to make everyone else drink as much as possible, but don’t win too often, or you’ll stay sober, and that’s no fun!”

Christine puts down the deck of cards. “You ready then?”

They separate to decide their signals as partners, Joyce and Cathy heading to the kitchen.

“You’ll have to pick our signal, Joyce,” she says immediately. “I’ve played this game so much with Christine that she knows all of mine and will spot us in a heartbeat.”

Joyce’s mind goes blank as the tall girl looks at her, half-smiling, waiting for her answer. All she can think of is a wink, or tugging on her earlobe or something, but those would be _way_ too obvious.

“Um… how about we do this,” she says finally, twitching her upper lip just a little to the right. She used to practice doing that in front of the mirror, until she could make it look like she was pulling her lip with an invisible string. Not that she’d ever tell someone like Cathy that.

“Like this?” Cathy mimics her. “That’s a good one. Subtle, but not so subtle _we_ won’t notice it.”

They head back to the card table, where Jim and Nick already sit, and a few minutes later Christine and Sandra join them.

The first round is over quickly, as Christine spots Nick signalling Jim with a wink that contorts his entire face and smacks the table before Jim has the chance to even lift a finger.

Cathy laughs as Christine gives the boys a pitying look. “You _really_ thought you would get away with that?”

Jim throws down his cards, gesturing at Nick. “I _told_ you that winking was a bad idea!”

“It would have worked if you had been fast enough!”

“I couldn’t be fast enough to make up for how subtle you _weren’t!_ You ‘winked’ with both eyes!”

Christine mimics picking up a bottle. “Bottoms up, gentlemen.”

They both mutter to themselves as they tip their beers before stomping off to the kitchen to decide on a new signal.

Christine leans over the table once they’re gone. “Should we stack the deck?”

The next few rounds are more fun, as Joyce gets the hang of the fast-paced game and the borderline cheating going on around the table. She definitely notices Jim picking up more than one card at a time, though he sure seems to think he’s being surreptitious about it, and while she can’t spot any outright rule-breaking on Christine’s part, she seems to get four-of-a-kind much too quickly for it to be completely above-board.

They come up with a system where every time someone properly catches another pair’s signal, they switch partners, and as drinks are emptied and cards are bent, the game gets louder, sillier, and the pounding in Joyce’s head ebbs away as the soreness in her sides gets worse from all the laughing.

“Okay, so here’s what I was thinking,” she says, once she figures she and Jim are far enough down the hall to be out of earshot from the others. He angles his body to cut off the line of sight from Christine and Cathy in the living room, who have already decided their signal and are watching them.

“You have a signal?” he asks, the several rounds he lost with Nick slurring his voice, giving it an uncharacteristic earnestness.

“Yeah, watch.” Holding her face completely still, she opens the corner of her mouth, blowing air out the side, as if she were blowing smoke.

Jim laughs, throwing his head back and absolutely howling. It’s not really funny, but he’s drunk, so Joyce just smiles. “It’s perfect! And, check this out, did I ever show you this?”

Suddenly a terribly high-pitched whistling assaults Joyce’s ears, and she claps her hands against her head to block out the sound. Jim’s mouth is barely contorted to make the sound, but even through her hands she can hear it faintly, but it stops when he grins.

“What the actual fuck?”

“It’s my special talent,” Jim says proudly.

“You can dog whistle? How come I’m just hearing about it now?”

“Well, thing is, if you’re close, you can only hear it when it’s pointed at you.” He demonstrates, whistling—if that’s even the right word for it—facing her, then turning slightly to the right and sure enough, it stops. At least for Joyce it stops, she can see a group of people further down the hall reach for their ears, looking around for the source of the sound.

She’s impressed, never mind that he didn’t _really_ answer her question. “Okay, but I can’t do that, so it can’t be our signal.”

“It’ll be _my_ signal.”

Joyce crosses her arms. “That’s kind of against the rules.”

“Joycie!” He bellows, and she flinches. “You’re not a _rule-follower!_ ” He laughs, and Joyce wonders if the neighbours can hear him.

Despite herself, she smiles. “Alright, you can use _either_ signal, I guess.”

“Fuckin’ right!” He claps his hands once, as if putting an end to the conversation, then turns to march back towards the card table. “Deal ‘em, Chrissy!”

Christine looks up, arching one eyebrow. “Christine,” she says levelly.

“That’s what I said!”

The first round with Jim goes poorly, as he doesn’t look up at her once, and so Joyce is forced to sit on her four nines until Cathy slams her hands down on the table and Christine triumphantly throws down her four queens.

Joyce kicks Jim under the table, throwing her own cards down. “Pay attention!”

Jim just laughs when he sees her cards, shrugging as he reaches for his beer. “Sorry, Joycie.”

Sandra turns to her. “Were you signalling this whole time?”

Joyce nods. “Not that it was helping much!”

They start another round, and this time Jim pays more attention, but to no avail, as Christine somehow gets four-of-a-kind in under a minute.

“I was dealt three sevens,” she explains, when Nick accuses her of cheating. “And _you_ dealt, so maybe you should drink twice for bad shuffling.”

This time Joyce deals, and she spends the first part of the round watching Christine so closely she almost passes by the four of diamonds which gives her three of a kind. The game becomes a mad frenzy in her mind, looking for the four of clubs, and she flies through the cards Nick hands her faster than she thought her hands could move. Or maybe that’s the alcohol making them blur…

And there it is. Casually, she starts blowing out the side of her mouth, continuing to pass the cards around the table as fast as she can. God bless Jim—this time he’s paying _good_ attention.

He slams his hands down on the table a split second before Cathy, whooping with delight.

“Fuck me!” He shouts, giving Joyce a high-five so hard her hand smarts. “Joycie, we’re unstoppable!”

Better yet, Joyce spotted the tiny twitch of Christine’s nose that preceded Cathy’s attempt. She’ll be keeping her eyes peeled for that next time.

She barely needs to, as Jim gets four jacks in seconds flat the next round, and his whistle almost makes her flinch before she hits the table.

Cathy turns around in her chair, looking confused. “Did… did anyone else just hear that? Like the music glitching out or something?”

Joyce looks at Jim, and he winks. She shakes her head the tiniest bit, trying to say _no more_ but he just grins back, taking a drink even though they just won.

Sandra and Nick take the next round, and Joyce wonders if Christine is on to her, or if she’s maybe a little paranoid. People _are_ always telling her she’s paranoid…

But no, the next round she catches it again, this time from Cathy, out of the corner of her eye. Just a little wiggle of her nose, and Christine hits the table.

Joyce’s drink is almost finished for the second time, but armed with the knowledge of the sisters’ signal, she feels confident.

The next round she takes with Jim—her signal, not his—and poor Sandra seems completely out of her wits from so long at the same game. “I can only do one more round, I think,” she says, eyes unfocused. “I can hardly tell what my cards are right now!”

And the moment finally comes—Joyce spots Christine’s nose twitch before Cathy does, and slams her hands down on the table with a terribly embarrassing squeal.

Jim stands suddenly. “No! Joyce I didn’t signal!”

“I did,” Christine says, biting her tongue and grinning at Joyce. “Well done, Joycie.”

She ducks her head in acknowledgment of the compliment, though she isn’t sure how she feels about being called Joycie by someone she’s just met, no matter how cool Christine may be. “Thanks.”

The others take their punitive drinks, and Jim gives Joyce another wrist-shattering high-five.

“We’re so _fucking_ _good_ at this game!” He declares, finishing his beer. Joyce is surprised he doesn’t smash the bottle against something once it’s empty. He turns to the rest of the room. “We’ll challenge anybody! We’ll kick your ass!”

Joyce looks over at Sandra, tottering on her feet. Joyce feels pretty trashed too, especially now that she’s standing, and it would probably be good for both of them to get a bit of fresh air. “Actually, I think I’m going to step outside for a minute.”

An unfamiliar voice speaks up from behind her. “Aw, really? I’d love to take up that challenge.”

Joyce turns, and a boy—well, a man—she doesn’t think she’s seen before is standing a few feet away, smiling.

She’s trying to find a way to politely back out, even though he’s quite handsome and looking _right at her_ , when she hears Jim grunt behind her.

“You got some balls showing up here, Byers.”

The unfamiliar man looks away from Joyce for the first time, smiling broadly over her head. “Jimmy, don’t say that! Benny and I buried the hatchet a long time ago. I’m welcome here.”

Joyce turns, trying to gauge how much of Jim’s sour reaction is from alcohol and how much is warranted. He suddenly seems all-too sober, watching the stranger warily. Clearly he’s no stranger to Jim. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you: Benny and I are on good terms these days.” He raises his hands. “I’ll admit, I was running with the wrong crowd, and did and said some things I’m not proud of. But I talked to Benny, and we’ve put that behind us now, so I think you and I can settle our differences too. Why not over a game of cards with a lovely young lady?” He turns to Joyce. “And who _is_ the young lady?”

Hopper responds “No one” at the same time Joyce says “I’m Joyce.”

She gives Hop a look, but he’s not watching her.

“Lonnie Byers,” the man holds out his hand, and Joyce slowly pulls hers from her pocket and shakes his. “Great to meet you, Joyce. Now how about that game?”

“I…” Joyce looks at Sandra, but she’s disappeared in the commotion without Joyce noticing. So have her cousins, so she hopes her friend’s not alone, at least. “I really should go make sure Sandra’s okay. She drank quite a bit.”

Lonnie smiles, ducking his head. He has dimples in both cheeks. “Of course; it’s good of you to check on her. Maybe later?”

Joyce finds herself smiling back, her heart fluttering a little at the eagerness in his voice. “Yeah, maybe later.”

She finds Sandra puking in a bush in front of the house, with Cathy holding her hair. The older girl smiles apologetically at Joyce as she steps shivering into the yard. “At least she made it this far, right?”

Joyce says nothing, stepping close enough to smell the vomit. She wrinkles her nose. “Will she be okay?”

“Oh yes, absolutely. She just got in a bit over her head, but once she’s thrown it all up she’ll feel much better.” Cathy pats Sandra’s shoulder. “The fresh air should help too.”

Joyce goes back inside, finding Sandra’s cup back on the card table. Lonnie Byers is sat there now, playing some other card game Joyce doesn’t recognize, and she returns his bright grin with a shy smile of her own.

“Come back to join us?” He asks. Does he sound… hopeful?

Joyce shakes her head, lifting the cup. “Just come to get this.” She notices Benny is at the table across from Lonnie, in conversation with a girl Joyce vaguely remembers from elementary school.

It seems Lonnie was telling the truth about his reconciliation with their host. 

She rinses the cup and fills it with water from the kitchen sink, returning to the front stoop and handing it to Sandra. She looks a little pale, but accepts the water gratefully, rinsing her mouth and spitting in the bush before taking a few small gulps.

Cathy smooths Sandra’s hair, fluffing it and combing it with her fingers until it looks somewhat styled again. “Better keep up with the water, Sandy,” she says, “for a while, at least.”

“How do you feel?” Joyce asks.

“A bit better,” she says, straightening her sweater and skirt. “I think it’s all out—can we go inside? It’s freezing out here.”

For once in her life, Joyce doesn’t actually feel all that cold. Well, that’s not wholly true—she can feel the cold air against her skin, feel the icy sharpness of the breeze blowing, but she likes it. It feels invigorating. _I guess that’s the alcohol,_ Joyce thinks, watching Cathy and Sandra head back indoors. _I’m warm enough on the inside._

It’s only when Lonnie Byers does a double-take when he sees her standing out there from the hallway that she realises she’s smiling.

He steps outside and shivers dramatically. “Whoa! Are you not frozen to bits out here, Joyce?”

She shakes her head. “I was just enjoying the fresh air.”

Lonnie shudders again, reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He holds them out to her, taking one for himself when Joyce declines. “So you’re a Junior at Hawkins High, huh?”

“Yes…how did you know?”

Lonnie grins, lighting the smoke in one try, despite the wind. “I asked around.”

Joyce ducks her head, suddenly feeling even warmer. “Well… yeah, I’m a junior. Did you go to Hawkins High, too?”

“Oh yeah, _years_ ago now,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I quit when I was a junior—didn’t think there was much else they could teach me that would actually help in the real world. Got a job at my dad’s garage, been there for four years now.”

“And do you like it there?”

Lonnie shrugs. “It’s not so bad. I like cars, but I definitely don’t want to be working there for the rest of my life. So much else in the world to see and do.” Those dimples flash again as he smiles warmly at her. “What about you? Got any big dreams or plans?”

Joyce is somewhat startled by the question. “I don’t know. I guess for now I just want to graduate high school—my parents never did, and I think I would like to. From there I… I don’t know. Have a family, I guess?”

Lonnie pshaws. “That’s it? You don’t want to travel? Fly to Paris, take a road-trip to California, or something?” His eyes sparkle. “I’d love to go to South America. I bet you’d love it there, it’s so beautiful and exotic.” He winks at her. “Although maybe you wouldn’t, if you like the cold so much!”

Joyce smiles back. “I like the warm, too. Actually, I usually like the warm much better than the cold. I think I’m just a little drunk,” she says with a small laugh.

Lonnie’s grin widens. “Well, you say the word and we’ll head back inside. I’d still like to play cards with you sometime tonight, if you’re up for it?”

Joyce feels something small and hot in her chest. “Yeah, that would be fun!”

“So long as we can be partners,” he adds. “I heard you and Jimmy were pretty damn good, and I can’t lose to a girl!”

Joyce laughs. “Well, I could go easy on you,” she offers.

Lonnie lifts his hand to his heart. “I could bear that even less!”

She laughs again, her stomach fluttering at the way he just smiles, watching her. “What are you looking at?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

Lonnie shakes his head. “Just you. You’re a cool gal, Joyce… what’s your last name?”

“Horowitz,” Joyce replies.

“Joyce Horowitz,” he repeats, still with that little smile. “You’re alright.”

She gives a little mock bow. “Why thank you.”

Lonnie gestures to the door. “Shall we?”

Playing with Lonnie is both nerve-wracking and exhilarating; Joyce is at first nervous that he’ll be disappointed in her if they don’t win, but after four rounds lost and all he’s done is laugh, she loosens up and is able to fully enjoy herself. And she does. Lonnie is constantly distracting her across the table, playing footsies with her, or wiggling his eyebrows in ridiculous ways, and Joyce can’t stop laughing at the face he makes when a round stretches on and the cards start coming at lightning speed.

They’re _terrible._ She’s not sure she’s ever had so much fun.

“Looks like your luck has run out, Joycie,” Nick says, elbowing her as she takes a drink, almost making her spill.

“It’s not luck,” Jim says, giving her a knowing look across the table. “It’s just that _we’re_ the dynamic duo.” The look turns into a smirk. “Partner makes a hell of a difference.”

“Ah, well it’s not all about winning, Jimmy,” Lonnie says, stretching his arms above his head, wiggling his eyebrows again. “It’s about having _fun_. And we’ve sure got that down pat—would you look at the smile on her face?”

Joyce blushes, but it’s true. She hasn’t stopped smiling the whole time. Her cheeks _hurt_.

Neither has Lonnie. Has anyone ever looked at her like this?

Jim, on the other hand, is a different story. He hasn’t laughed at any of Lonnie’s jokes, unlike everyone else at the table, and every time he opens his mouth it only seems to make Jim scowl. This is no exception.

“I think it’s a little about winning,” Christine says, with a mysterious look Joyce is beginning to think is her signature. “At least, it is if you _can_.” She and Cathy have been wiping the floor with the rest of them, again, though this time Joyce doesn’t care if there’s any cheating involved. She and Jim were cheating a little too, she supposes.

Jim seems to welcome the distraction from the man sitting on his other side, turning to Christine with a fire in his eyes. Not necessarily a competitive one. “Is that a challenge?”

“Please Jim, you’re only going to give yourself alcohol poisoning,” Christine purrs.

“Joyce!” Jim stands abruptly, raising his hand in the air. “We’ve got to take ‘em down!”

Reluctantly, Nick starts to stand, but just as Joyce is giving Lonnie an apologetic look someone announces the countdown is on, and chaos ensues as everyone gets to their feet to crowd around the radio.

Joyce only has eight seconds to say goodbye to 1963, startled at how quickly the evening has gone, considering how long the year has felt. As the last few seconds fall away, she can’t help but feel that this next year will be better.

“ _THREE, TWO, ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!”_

Everyone whoops and shouts and applauds, and then Joyce feels a hand on her shoulder, spinning her around, and then she feels a warm mouth on her own.

She can feel Lonnie smiling even as he kisses her, and once her surprise wears off, she’s sure he can feel hers.

 _Happy New Year. Here’s to 1964_.

She can feel warmth down to the tips of her toes, and her cheeks are surely going to fall off from all of this smiling.

“Was that okay?” Lonnie asks, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

She nods, breathless. Are her knees shaking? God, she’s such a dumb girl sometimes.

She doesn’t care.

Lonnie smiles, kissing her again quickly. “Good. I’ve been wanting to do that all night.” He steps away. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to use the little boys’ room. Be back in a jif.”

He’s barely turned around when Joyce feels a hard tug on her sleeve, and at first she wonders if someone else is trying to kiss her until she sees Sandra’s incredulous brown eyes wide as saucers staring at her.

“Joyce Horowitz, you little minx! What did I just see?”

Sandra hauls her to the entryway, away from the centre of the noise, all the better to pry the information out of her, Joyce is sure.

“Who were _you_ just kissing?”

“Lonnie Byers,” Joyce replies, hardly able to believe it herself. “Sandra… he’s _twenty_.”

Sandra squeals, jumping up and down. “Joyce! I can’t believe you! I _knew_ you could do so much better than Henry but _wow_!”

Joyce giggles, her heart still racing. She doesn’t even mind Sandra bringing up Henry, again. “I know, I can’t believe he’s even a little interested in me.”

“I can!” Sandra insists. “It’s the skirt Joyce. I told you it was the right choice.”

At this Joyce does roll her eyes. “Yeah, the little bit slutty clearly worked.”

Sandra laughs, and Joyce finds herself joining in. _What a perfect night_.

Cathy finds them just then, giving Joyce a knowing grin. “You girls ready to learn some poker now? Benny just dug out his chips.”

“I’m in,” Sandra says. “Joyce?”

Joyce touches her cheeks, finding them burning hot. “I think I’m going to step outside for some fresh air. And a smoke. Maybe after I’ll come learn.”

“Oh, you’ll need a smoke after _that_ , Joyce,” Sandra says mischievously, dodging Joyce’s attempt to smack her arm as she flounces away.

Joyce digs her coat out from the pile on the bannister, making her way through the house for the deck off the back of the kitchen. It’s less windy back there, she thinks.

Apparently she’s not the only one to have the idea; Jim is already out here, up on the railing with his long legs dangling off the other side. He doesn’t turn when Joyce steps out, so she tiptoes up behind him, poking him sharply in both sides at once. “Careful!”

Flailing, Jim nearly sends himself right over the edge, shouting and grabbing the railing for dear life. Joyce laughs as Jim turns around to glare at her. “You could have pushed me to my death.”

Joyce leans on the bannister beside him, peering over the edge. She knew very well that the deck is only two feet off the ground, at most, and with the snow it’s even less. “Good thing your reflexes are so good.” She does a few practise jumps before vaulting herself up beside him, though Jim has to steady her to keep _her_ from pitching off the other side. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jim says, offering his lighter as she pulls a cigarette from the pack in her pocket. She leans forward, Jim’s big hand doing a better job of blocking the wind than her two combined.

Jim already has a Camel in his mouth, so she has this one all to herself, enjoying a long drag that seems to reach her very soul. She sighs deeply as she exhales a cloud of smoke. “Happy new year, Hop.”

He raises an empty, gloved hand, pretending to hold a drink. “Here’s to 1964.”

Joyce meets his toast, knocking her mitt against his. “Surely it can’t get worse.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, puffing away on their cigarettes. Joyce isn’t as cold as she thought she would be, although she thinks Jim might be blocking the wind.

It’s a beautiful night, despite the low temperatures. In her intoxicated state Joyce has to keep herself from leaping from the deck and running through the silver-tinted snow, trying to be satisfied instead with just imagining doing snow angels.

“Did you kiss Christine at midnight?” She asks Jim.

He grins. “Yup.”

“How did she take it?”

He turns to her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Joyce raises her hands. “I just mean—whoa!”

Jim catches her again before she falls—backward this time. “Careful there, Joycie. The ground might be safest for someone who’s had as much to drink as you.”

“I haven’t had _half_ the alcohol you have, James Leopold Hopper,” she accuses. “I’m fine up here.”

He laughs. “You also probably don’t _weigh_ half as much as I do. Now explain what you mean telling me Christine didn’t want to kiss me. I’ll have you know older women love me.”

“And younger ones too,” Joyce quips. Jim gives her a funny look, but she ignores it. “I just mean she’s going to eat you alive, that’s all.”

“God, I hope so,” he says. “But it’s not _me_ you should be worried about.”

“Now what does _that_ mean?”

Jim straightens, and she can tell whatever he’s about to say, he thinks it’s some valuable nugget of wisdom from his extra two-and-a-half years of life experience. _Like that counts for anything_. “Lonnie Byers.”

Joyce’s exasperated sigh nearly topples her yet again. “Why do you hate him? What did he ever do to you?” She’s pretty sure she’s pouting. “I like him,” she adds.

“I noticed,” Jim says drily. “He’s trouble, that’s all.” He turns to look over the field behind the cabin, taking a dramatic pull from his cigarette. “He had a friend who was dealing Sernyl. And he just… he’s trouble.”

“What’s Sernyl?”

“A drug. A bad one.”

Joyce scoffs. “What do you know about it?”

Jim turns to her, suddenly seeming way too sober. “A… a nurse, in Chicago. She told me about it. It’s bad news Joyce, I’m serious.”

“Well was _Lonnie_ dealing it?”

“No, but—”

“Was he taking it?”

Jim scowls. “No. You would know if he was.”

“Then so what? He can’t control his friends.”

“Don’t be stupid, Joyce. You’ve got to be more careful than that.”

She pulls a little too hard on her cigarette, starting to cough. Before she even has time to teeter, Jim has a firm grip on her shoulder, keeping her securely on her seat.

“No need to smoke so angrily,” he jokes, lightening his tone. “I’m not trying to boss you around. I’m just telling you that I think you should be careful.”

She tries again, this time not choking on her own smoke like some kind of rookie. Truth be told, despite her drunken bravado, the knowledge that Lonnie has a serious drug-dealing friend is a bit alarming. Even if the man himself is charming and seems harmless, Jim’s right to tell her to be careful. The last thing she needs is to get mixed up with the wrong crowd.

Not that that means she can’t still see Lonnie. That is, if he asks her out, then she doesn’t need to say _no…_

“You alright then?” He asks.

She nods. “Yes. Thanks Hop.”

“Don’t mention it. Now smoke like you’ve done it before, will ya?” He bumps her shoulder with his, but she doesn’t lose her balance. “And finish quickly. We have a Kemps championship to defend against those cheaters."

"Those _other_ cheaters, you mean?"

Jim chuckles. "Exactly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You would be forgiven for hating me for this updating schedule. And if you're wondering "what updating schedule?" Then yeah, exactly. Sorry friends.  
> Many thanks to my cousin who let me convince him to watch Stranger Things with, giving me the opportunity to rewatch it and get the inspiration I needed to finish this monster chapter. And also to just completely fall back in love with Jopper. Man.  
> Also, in case anyone is wondering about Hop's whistling thing: My sister's boyfriend can do this, so I know it's possible, but he's the only person I've ever met who can. Apparently he used to do it in class, and it's so high-pitched that the students could hear it but their teacher couldn't, which meant that as far as the teacher could tell sometimes the students would all just start freaking out for no apparent reason (because the sound is very annoying and kind of hurts your ears). And since his mouth barely moves when he does it (unlike a normal whistle) very few of the students could even figure out what was causing it. Sound like Hop in high school to anyone else?


End file.
